


Poets

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (sort of), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Parentlock, Post-His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-19 19:29:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1481326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a close friend of Sherlock and John's dies, she leaves her fifteen year old daughter to their care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I have no affiliation with any of the wonderful people who created Sherlock Holmes or BBC Sherlock
> 
> This is my first serious fanfiction and is neither beta'd nor britpicked, so all mistakes are entirely my own and I'd appreciate any feedback.
> 
> Note: Nothing is described in very much detail, but there are references to panic attacks and domestic violence/murder in this work. Please do not read if those are triggers for you.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!

_NSY.  Come now._

By this point John was quite used to receiving texts from Lestrade on Sherlock’s behalf; it was the urgency in the message that alarmed him.  Cutting a glance up at Sherlock, and seeing that he was busy peering through his microscope, John responded:

_We’ll be there in twenty minutes.  What’s happened?_

The response came instantly.

_Jenny Hemingway_

John’s breath caught in his throat and he repeated the question.  _What’s happened?_

He closed his eyes after reading the response.  This couldn’t be, it _couldn’t_ be, they’d seen her only yesterday.

_She’s dead._

“Sherlock?” said John, fighting to keep his voice steady.  The detective grunted in response and did not look up.  John repeated the name, falling unconsciously into his captain voice, commanding attention.  “Sherlock.”

With a huff of annoyance Sherlock half-turned in the desk chair to face him.  “ _What,_ John.”  Then he seemed to notice John’s expression and he hesitated, biting back whatever cutting remark he had been about to make.

John took a deep breath, unsure of how to say it.  “Lestrade’s just texted me…” he began, hoping Sherlock would deduce the rest so that John wouldn’t have to say it out loud, but Sherlock remained silent.  It was perhaps the first time he had let John deliver news rather than guessing it himself immediately.  John cleared his throat and decided that there was no point in sugar coating it.  “She’s dead, Sherlock.”

Something in the detective’s face changed, and after a long, swelling silence, he asked very carefully, “Who’s dead?”  He knew already.  John could tell he knew.

“Jenny.”  Sherlock said nothing to this, only stared at John with an expression that was carefully balanced between completely blank and utterly devastated, and John found himself in the curious position of trying to comfort Sherlock Holmes.  “Look,” he said in a voice as calm as he could manage, “I’m sorry, I know it’s a shock, but Lestrade –”

“Needs us at the Yard.  Of course,” finished Sherlock, snapping back into action with alarming abruptness.  He had stood and was already pulling on his coat, and was at the top of the stairs before he turned back to look at John, who had not moved.  “Well?  What are you waiting for?”

 _For you to have an emotional breakdown regarding the death of a woman you cared about very much,_ thought John, but of course he’d known that wouldn’t happen.  Sherlock was not going to cry over Jenny Hemingway’s death, and if he did it would certainly not be in front of John.  “Right – sorry – coming.”

As soon as John had hoisted himself off the couch, Sherlock turned away and descended the stairs without waiting for him.  By the time John had pulled on shoes and a jacket and started after him, Sherlock was already outside hailing them a cab.

John knew that there was no point in trying to talk to Sherlock, who was clearly locked away deep in his mind palace, so he sat silently during the drive to New Scotland Yard.  When they were about five minutes from their destination, Sherlock abruptly broke the silence with, “How can they be sure?”

“Sorry?”

“How can Lestrade be sure she’s dead?”

John sighed.  “Look, Sherlock, I know it’s hard to wrap your mind around at the moment, but –”

“I’m not in _denial,_ John,” snapped the detective.  “It’s perfectly plausible that she could still be alive.  Look at Irene Adler, she faked it, and we even saw the body.  Look at Moriarty.  Look at _me."_

John flinched at the mention of Moriarty and at the mention of Sherlock’s faked suicide.  Sherlock appeared not to notice and plowed on.  “So don’t say it’s impossible, John, because it’s _not_ , it’s –”  He stopped talking quickly as his voice broke on “it’s.”  John turned away from the window and looked at him carefully.  He appeared on the verge of tears. 

“It’s not impossible,” Sherlock concluded, very quietly.   

John had no idea what he could possibly say to Sherlock that would help, so he just responded, “We’ll talk to Lestrade about it.”

Both of them were silent again the last couple of minutes until the cab pulled up outside New Scotland Yard.  As expected, Sherlock jumped out immediately, leaving John to pay and thank the cabbie.  He caught up with Sherlock just outside the door.

Lestrade was in his office, pacing back and forth and talking on his mobile.  Sherlock knocked and then entered without waiting for a response.  Lestrade glanced at him and John, held up a finger to indicate that they wait for him to finish, and then said into the phone, “That’d be great, thanks…no, not the bloody doctor again, send…yeah, yeah, great.  Okay.  Thanks…bye.”  He snapped it shut and stowed it in a jacket pocket then turned back to face John and Sherlock.  

“Glad you could make it so quickly,” he said, lightly and almost cheerfully.  John had to remind himself that Lestrade had no idea of the personal connection he and Sherlock had had with Jenny in order to restrain his urge to punch the DI.

“Who did it and how did it happen?” Sherlock asked briskly.  All signs of the emotion he had displayed in the cab were gone. 

Lestrade looked slightly taken aback by the abruptness, but being well used to the peculiarities of Sherlock Holmes by this point, he recovered quickly.  “One hour ago, we received an emergency call saying that Miss Hemingway was missing and appeared to have been forcibly removed from her home.  We –” 

“Who called?” interrupted Sherlock, impatient and irritated by the lack of detail. 

“Miss Hemingway’s daughter,” said Lestrade.

John felt weak suddenly, and leaned against the wall, trying to look casual and not as if he were in very real danger of passing out.  Her daughter, of course, Samantha Hemingway, Jenny’s fifteen year old daughter…how the fuck had he forgotten her?  So caught up in the news of Jenny’s death, it hadn’t even occurred to him…as close as John and Sherlock had been to Jenny, Samantha had been almost like a daughter to him, and though he would never have admitted it, John knew that Sherlock felt the same way…Christ, how had he _forgotten_ her?  

“John,” said Sherlock sharply, and John realized that he had missed most of Lestrade’s report.  “Come on, we’re going to Bart’s.”     

“Okay,” said John, hoping desperately that his voice wasn’t shaking.  The initial shock was beginning to wear off, and John feared that he might actually start crying.  He couldn’t do that, not here, not in front of Lestrade.  Without looking at either the DI or the detective, John followed his friend out of the office.    

“She was shot,” Sherlock explained to him as they made their way through the crowded Yard.  He was clueless about many things, the detective, especially when it came to human nature, but he seemed to know that John had not been able to pay attention to Lestrade, and John was grateful.  “It was Peterson.  He took her from the flat while Samantha was out…”

She had no one now.  They needed to find her.  Where was she?  Wouldn’t she be at the Yard?”    

“…and appeared to be trying to take her somewhere.  A long distance, judging by the car.  The police caught up with him shortly after Samantha placed the call.  They surrounded him, got him out of the car…” 

Jesus Christ, oh god no…     

“…he had a gun.  He shot Jenny through the window.  The police shot him immediately afterwards.”    

Jesus fucking Christ.     

“So we’re going to Bart’s to…” began John, then stopped.  The body, Jenny’s body, in the morgue.  Fucking hell.  John couldn’t handle that.  

“No,” said Sherlock, and for the first time since the cab there was a quiver of emotion in his voice.  “I don’t need to see the body.  Bart’s is where Samantha is.”    

They were outside now, and John couldn’t keep control much longer.  He knew this feeling, he was no stranger to it – it had been a while since he had lost them, but this was how he felt during every nightmare, every one of the panic attacks that he tried so hard to hide…only this time there was nothing to wake up from.  

He leaned against the building, shaking and trying to control his breathing.  He had been doing so well…he _would not_ have a panic attack, not here, not now, not in front of Sherlock…    

“John,” said the detective, and John felt a hand rest uncertainly on his shoulder.  He opened his eyes but avoided Sherlock’s gaze..    

“John,” said Sherlock again, in a voice that was not exactly soothing, but John could tell that he was making an effort to be much more gentle than usual.  “Look at me.”   

Reluctantly John complied, raising his head to meet Sherlock’s eyes.  For lack of a better word, the consulting detective looked frightened, and John felt the raw lump in his throat grow.  He should be the one comforting Sherlock, not the other way around.  Sherlock was so unaccustomed to grief, to loss…John, what with the war and Sherlock and Mary and the baby, was well acquainted with both.  

Sherlock looked down at him uncertainly and said, “You okay?”  He had not yet removed his hand.  

“Fine,” said John, swallowing with some difficulty.  “Fine.  Yeah.  Sorry.  Let’s go.”  Sherlock made no effort to move.  “Samantha will be waiting,” John reminded him.   

Sherlock distinctly uncomfortable as he said, with the air of someone trying very hard to find exactly the right words, “Samantha will be…very upset, naturally.  When we see her…”  John had rarely experienced Sherlock at a loss for words, if ever, and it unnerved him.  “It wouldn’t do to…be upset in her presence,” Sherlock continued.  “It wouldn’t be right to put her in that position.”     

John raised an eyebrow at him.  “Are you saying we shouldn’t go?”    

“No,” said Sherlock.  “I’m saying…you’re an emotional person, John, you always have been.  You’re going to cry sooner or later, and if you haven’t done so yet I don’t’ imagine you’ll last very much longer.”  John did not bother to deny the statement; if he spoke, he was afraid the sobs he had building up inside of him would come out.  “So.  I’m just saying, before we go, if you need to…well.” 

The invitation was all it took.  Tears were already sliding down John’s face.  He looked away again and tried, with a few deep breaths, to get control of himself.  It did not work; he wasn’t breathing, he was gasping.    

Sherlock stood still, a hand still on John’s shoulder, and John wanted nothing more than to turn to the detective and bury his face in that ridiculous Belstaff coat…he had been held by Sherlock only once before, after the joint funerals of Mary and the baby, and it had been more comforting than he was willing to admit.  But he knew that Sherlock did not like physical affection, was not comfortable with it, so he resisted the impulse and settled for just Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder while he cried.  He thought he heard the other man crying as well, but when a few minutes later John straightened and was able to look up, Sherlock’s eyes were quite dry.   

“You ready?” asked Sherlock, and only when John nodded did he finally remove his hand.  He lead John to the street and hailed them a cab, apparently completely unperturbed by having just watched his best friend have an emotional breakdown outside of New Scotland Yard.  John got into the cab after him, slightly shaky still, but immensely grateful.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read and enjoyed the first chapter! Sorry it's taken me so long to update this. Hopefully it'll be quicker once school's over.
> 
> Enjoy!

John had done his best to avoid St. Bartholomew’s Hospital since Mary’s death.  Sherlock’s lab, that was okay, and he was usually fine in the morgue, but any part of the hospital where they actually treated people…John had been in a St. Bart’s waiting room when he found out.  The last time he saw her she was being rolled into the ICU.  They wouldn’t let him stay with her.  The next time he saw her it was too late. 

John took a deep breath as he followed Sherlock into the hospital, trying to calm himself.  He had only narrowly avoided a panic attack at NSY, and Sherlock was right: it wouldn’t be fair to do it in front of Samantha.

Sherlock seemed to be completely oblivious to John’s state of mind, and John felt something akin to relief.  He was, of course, the type of person more partial to physical comfort, but Sherlock wasn’t, and the return to normal behavior was nearly as comforting as a hug might have been.    

 _Stay calm_ , John reminded himself as Sherlock spoke to a receptionist _.  It’s just a hospital.  You’re just here to see Samantha and she’s fine.  No one is hurt, no one is dying…_

Except Jenny, but it was too late for her.  Just like it had been too late for Mary.

John drew a sharp breath and Sherlock turned around, concern written in his face.  “Is this okay?” he asked in a low voice.  “Being here?”

John nodded, his jaw set.  “Fine,” he said shortly. 

He could tell that Sherlock didn’t believe him, but the detective thankfully did not press the issue.  “Come on,” he said.  “This way.” 

Sherlock led John into an elevator.  Once the doors were closed, ensuring their privacy, he said, “John, if you don’t want to…”  It was back, the look from outside NSY.  Desperate to help John but helpless to do so because of his own crippling cluelessness about human nature.  All this on top of Sherlock’s own grief, which he was carefully setting aside for John’s sake.             

“I’m fine,” said John again, more gently.  “It’s fine.  It’s all fine.”    

Sherlock managed a smile at the familiar phrase, which had first been used in a distinctly uncomfortable context but over time had become something of a joke between them.   

The elevator had stopped by this time and John followed Sherlock down several long hallways.  It was not Mary’s floor, thank god, but similar enough that it sent chills down his spine.  It had been just over a year since her death, and John wondered whether he’d ever be able to comfortably walk through a hospital again.

The room Sherlock entered was not a typical hospital room; it appeared to be an office of some sort.  A young nurse sat behind the desk.  Opposite her, perched stiffly on the edge of an armchair, was Samantha Hemingway.  John noted with inappropriate amusement the orange blanket draped across her shoulders.  It looked as if Samantha wanted badly to push it aside but lacked the energy to do so.

She and the nurse both looked up as John and Sherlock entered.  The nurse seemed about to protest but Sherlock cut her off by saying briskly, “Sherlock Holmes.”  Then gesturing at John, “Dr. John Watson.  Friends of the family.”

The way he said it was so lacking in the compassion necessitated by the situation that John wished Sherlock had left the explanations to him, but apparently the nurse had been informed that they would come, because she nodded and left without another word.    

Samantha looked down again as soon as the door clicked shut and there was an uncomfortable moment in which none of the three knew quite what to say.

John, being a retired army doctor, knew these situations all too well, so he took charge.  Ironically, Samantha’s grief helped to distract him from his own, and having a purpose helped to push back the anxiety that still bubbled dangerously close to the surface.  “Samantha,” he said softly, going to her and kneeling in front of her.  “I’m so sorry.”

Samantha did not answer, but the tremor in her hands become more visible.  John took her hands in his and Samantha drew a sharp breath.  When she let it out there was a distinct trembling quality to it  She took several more similar breaths, trying to calm herself, but they were becoming increasingly frantic and upset.

“Shh,” said John softly, trying simultaneously to elicit her tears and eliminate them; he did not want to see her cry, but he thought she might feel better after doing so.

John was not entirely certain whether she had slipped forward into him or he had risen to her, but he found himself holding the girl tightly in his arms.  She was still refusing to cry but her face was pressed into his shoulder and she was trembling so violently it was almost alarming, and John might have tried to get her medical attention were he not a doctor himself and fully aware that intervention could only make it worse.  He rubbed his hands up and down her back, trying to soothe her but knowing that no amount of comfort would bring Jenny back, and that was the only thing that could truly fix this.    

After a very long time, John said very gently, “Samantha?”  She had mostly stopped shaking, and John thought it safe to broach the subject.  It would have to be addressed eventually.  “You’re going to stay with Sherlock and I, is that alright?"     

Samantha lifted her head enough to nod, and John loosened his hold on her.  As much of a shock as Jenny’s death had been, that did not mean her situation hadn’t demanded she prepare for it, and it had been made quite clear that in the event of her death, Sherlock and John would become Jenny’s legal guardians.

John glanced back at Sherlock, who had been quite silent since entering the room.  The detective looked back at him with an expression that was something like determined.

“Unless,” added John, “you would rather we stay with you at your home?”

The offer prompted the first words from Samantha, and her voice cracked with disuse as she said, “No.  I…I can’t…”

“I understand,” said John, because he did.  He had not returned to 221B for months following Sherlock’s funeral, and he had never gone back to he and Mary’s home; Sherlock had gone to collect his things for him.  He ran a hand over Samantha’s long hair.  “Are you ready to go?”

Samantha nodded and John helped her up, the orange shock blanket slipping from her shoulders and onto the floor.  “Let’s go, then.”

 

Sherlock Holmes really did not know how to cope with someone else’s suffering.  One might think that he would have had enough practice by now, what with sharing a flat with John Watson following the unceremonious deaths of his wife and unborn daughter, but that was _John,_ and John belonged in a category all his own.  Helping John through his grief had consisted mainly of making a great deal of tea (not good, but slowly improving) and playing the violin on nights when John woke screaming from nightmares that before had remained silent.

Samantha Hemingway was decidedly not the same as John Watson, and, being a fifteen-year-old girl, would likely require a very different sort of comfort.  The sort – and Sherlock almost cringed to think of it – that would require things like _hugging,_ things like _talking,_ and he wasn’t going to blame the girl for that but it would have been so much simpler if everyone were like John, because John never wanted to talk and he liked physical comfort but did not want it from Sherlock, who was too stiff and awkward to provide it anyway.

Then there was the fact that Sherlock himself was grieving (what an ugly word that was) and he knew that if people found him prickly in the best of situations, he became downright despicable when he was upset.

John was staying close by Samantha’s side and by an unspoken agreement it was Sherlock who handled everything that needed to be done to get Samantha to 221B.  Fill out a form and give it to the secretary (happily married, three kids, just had a birthday), talk briefly on the phone with Jenny’s lawyer (interrupted just as he was about to bed his secret lover), and crisply turn down everything offered and suggested by the welfare officer, which wasn’t very difficult because he was planning to propose to his long-term boyfriend that night, and was duly distracted.     

These observations and more Sherlock attempted to point out to John, but the doctor just shook his head and gave him a very pointed look each time he tried, so by the time he swept out of Bart’s with John and Samantha trailing behind him, Sherlock was in a very bad mood indeed.  He was tired, at the people at Bart’s were so tedious, and he’d just lost a close friend.  He needed distraction, and he couldn’t see what John found so wrong with the comments.

John, of course, knew all of this, and if he thought it were safe he would have happily let the man deduce to his heart’s content.  Sherlock needed the distraction, he knew, and Samantha probably did as well.  But as it was, the paperwork regarding Samantha’s transfer into their care was dubious at best, and while Sherlock’s overbearing nature was not hurting their case, reducing everyone involved to tears certainly wouldn’t help it.

John hadn’t talked much to Samantha – he really had no idea what to say to her – but Samantha didn’t seem much inclined to talk either, so for the hour or so they were forced to linger at the hospital they stood silently side by side, watching Sherlock all but bully the officials into submission.

By the time Sherlock hailed them a cab, John could tell he was descending into a full-blown sulk.  When it pulled over, and Samantha and John got in, Sherlock said, “I’ll take the next one.”

“What – ”     

“One of you might talk.”  The detective slammed the door.    

John wanted to reprimand him, because it was Samantha’s feelings he ought to be considering more than his own, but he supposed that Sherlock believed not taking this cab and leaving John and Samantha to find their own to be consideration enough.

John settled back into his seat and sighed.  Jenny was dead and was suddenly guardian to a fifteen year old girl.  He wasn’t sure he could handle a Sherlockian sulk on top of everything else.


	3. Chapter 3

Distracted and worn out as he was by the day’s events, John fumbled with the lock for a very long time, and when at last he got the door open Mrs. Hudson was standing in the hall to greet them.

“John, you left in such a hurry, I didn’t –” she began, and then broke off her sentence to exclaim, “Samantha!”  She came forward to embrace the girl, who stood rather stiffly in the hug and did not respond.  Mrs. Hudson took a step back and examined her.  “What’s wrong?” she asked.  She looked up at John.  “Is Jenny coming over too?”

John sighed heavily and heard Sherlock approaching behind him.  Not answering Mrs. Hudson’s question, he said, “Sherlock, will you take Samantha upstairs?”

The detective shot him a look of great annoyance that John knew masked quite a lot of pain and started up the stairs, leaving Samantha to follow behind him.

John watched the two retreat for a moment before taking Mrs. Hudson by the elbow and leading her into the kitchen of 221A.  Unsure of how she would react to the news, he began by saying rather more sharply than necessary, “Sit down.”  When Mrs. Hudson had done so he leaned back against the counter and took a deep breath.  It was the second time he had delivered this news today, but it certainly was no easier.  After a moment’s hesitation, he decided that, like with Sherlock, putting it off would only make it worse.  “Jenny died.  Earlier today,” he said, and closed his eyes against Mrs. Hudson’s gasp of horror.

“Oh,” she said, “oh – oh, but Samantha, the poor girl…”  She pulled out a handkerchief only to clench it in her hand and hold it, twisted into her white-knuckled fist, to her mouth.  “Oh, Jenny…oh, _John…_ oh.”  She gulped and added in a whisper, “How did it happen?”

“There was an accident,” said John shortly, because he didn’t think he could handle explaining at the moment.  He would leave that part to Sherlock, he thought.  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I have to –”  He gestured at the ceiling.  “I’ll come by later, all right?”  he pushed himself into a standing position and clapped a hand briefly to the landlady’s shoulder before leaving the first-story flat.

Upstairs he heard the violin begin to play and smiled in spite of himself.  John was rather clueless when it came to music, but he recognized it as Bach – Fugue Sonata or something like that – because it was Samantha’s favourite and Sherlock played it for her nearly every time she visited.  He wondered whether Sherlock would compose something as he had when he thought Irene Adler to be dead and despite the miserable circumstances, John hoped that he would.  Sherlock did not compose often, but every time he did it made John think that he would listen to classical music far more often, if only it were all as beautiful as this.  (John realized that this was an extremely biased opinion.  He also realized that he very firmly believed in it.)

John was tempted to stay downstairs or perhaps just leave the flat altogether, but he forced himself to go upstairs and join Sherlock and Samantha, knowing that nothing good could possibly come of leaving a grieving Sherlock with a grieving teenager.

He paused in the doorway of 221B to take in the scene.  Sherlock was standing at the farther window, his back to the rest of the room, and Samantha sat in Sherlock’s chair, her back to him, so that neither of them had any chance of catching the other’s eye unless they both happened to turn around at the same time.  John wondered if that was intentional and whether Sherlock could have possibly done something to hurt her already.

But Sherlock was her guardian now.  John needed to stop thinking those thoughts.

Samantha looked up at John and held his gaze evenly.  She was remarkably calm.

Sherlock finished the sonata and both John and Samantha looked up at him as he lowered his bow and took a deep breath that shook almost imperceptibly, unnoticeable to anyone but John.  After a moment’s pause, he lifted the bow again and continued playing, starting the same song from the beginning.

There were so many things that needed to be discussed, both with Samantha and without her.  Where she would be sleeping, for one thing; 221B had only two bedrooms.  And who would collect her things from Jenny’s flat, and when.  There were routines to be worked out, rules to be established.  And John knew he could not put off a very serious discussion with his flatmate, because they were effectively parents now, and he had never met anyone less suited to parenthood than Sherlock Holmes.

For now, though, John sat down in his armchair without a word, and he and Samantha sat silently as Sherlock completed the sonata a second time.

Just as he was about to commence playing again, John interrupted him softly.  “Sherlock.”

Sherlock did not turn around and did not lower the bow, but he kept it still, hovering over the violin while he waited for John to continue.  

John hesitated; now that he had Sherlock’s attention he was unsure of what to say.  _It’ll be okay.  We’ll be great dads.  Samantha will be fine.  You’ll be fine.  It’ll all work out._ “What would you two like for dinner?”

Sherlock made an irritated huffing noise and Samantha said immediately, “I’m not hungry.”

“You’ve got to eat something,” said John firmly, though his own stomach turned at the thought of food.  “Shall I order takeaway?”

Sherlock huffed again and continued playing, this time a song John couldn’t identify; it was much sadder than the Bach.  John sighed and went into the kitchen to phone the Chinese place down the street.

As he was placing the order the violin grew shriller and much faster, sounding almost frantic.  After a moment Samantha joined him in the kitchen, taking a seat at the table.

He wrapped a hand over the receiver and asked, “The usual?”  She nodded.  Jenny and Samantha had come by for dinner quite frequently in the year since they’d met and John could not recall a single occasion where he had actually cooked for them.

In the sitting room the violin, which had begun to sound much more like a siren than an instrument, dropped off in the middle of a note as Sherlock slammed it down on the desk and went to his room, the tart click of the door much louder than necessary.

John finished the order and hung up the phone and began to make tea almost automatically.  Sherlock would have laughed at him; the detective found John’s dependence upon tea frankly ridiculous.

After putting the kettle on to boil, he sat down at the table across from Samantha, who was looking studiously down at her hands.  “Well,” he said, then stopped.  As accustomed to loss as he was, he actually had very little experience in dealing with other people’s reactions to it.  Aside from Irene Adler’s faked death, it was always John who lost people close to him, and he could hardly follow Sherlock Holmes’ example.

It turned out he didn’t have to say anything; Samantha beat him to it.  “There’s only two bedrooms here,” she said.

John was not entirely sure how to react.  She was in many ways older than her age – it was, no doubt, why she and Sherlock got on so well – but she shouldn’t have been considering such practical details when she had lost her mother only hours before.  Details should have been John’s job.

“Yes,” he said finally, still uncertain why she had thought it important enough to break her silence for.

She shot him a look much like the one Sherlock often presented him with – the _oh-my-god-do-I-actually-have-to-explain-it-to-you_ look.  “And you and Sherlock don’t know the first thing about parenting –”

“We –” started John, not looking to deny it (because it was undoubtedly true) but to reassure her that they’d try their best.

“ – and, given the choice, you’d never have to learn,” she finished.

John still did not fully grasp her meaning.

“I’ve got an aunt,” she said very quietly, “in Southampton.”

“What –” said John, and then understood.  “Samantha –”

“she’s got kids,” whispered the girl, eyes sparkling with tears, “and a big house.”

“Sam –”

“And she –”

“Samantha,” said John, abandoning all gentleness in favour of a voice that more effectively commanded attention.  She fell silent.  “We are not giving you up,” he said firmly.  “If you would truly, honestly rather live with your aunt, Sherlock and I will work out the details and put you on a train to Southampton tomorrow morning.  But please – please don’t think that we don’t want you here.  Okay?”

She continued to look down at her fidgeting hands, not responding, until she realized that John actually expected an answer.  “Okay,” she said, her voice shaking.

John leaned across the table and after a moment’s hesitation, took her hands.  “Don’t worry about the logistics.  Okay?  We’ll figure everything out.  And I know we don’t – I know Sherlock and I don’t have a lot of experience with these things, but –”  He thought about how Samantha had said he’d never have chosen fatherhood, and of how he _had,_ with Mary, only Moriarty had taken that from him, and suddenly he was not just willing to do this, he _wanted_ it.  “We’ll work it out, okay?  Sherlock and I will have a lot to learn, but I promise you we’ll do your best, and...”  He hesitated, unsure how sentimental it was okay to get, before deciding what the hell, the girl probably needed to hear it.  “And we’ll never let you go.”

Samantha bowed her head and John realized that she was crying, silent tears streaming down her face.  He squeezed her hands.

“I miss her,” she choked.  “I – it’s completely mad – irrational – I’ve been away for days at a time without missing her, and now she’s been gone just a few hours, and I – ”  She broke off a took a moment to try to regain her composure.  “I just want her back.”

“I know,” said John, and then, unnecessarily, “I’m sorry.”

And it was so inadequate, and Samantha knew it, and she let out a laugh that was half a sob before breaking down completely.

The doorbell rang, and John inwardly cursed the poor timing.  He was about to disentangle his hands from Samantha’s when Sherlock swept past the kitchen and down the stairs in an unusual display of consideration for other people, leaving John somewhat shocked and also irrationally proud, as if Sherlock were his child and just learning manners, which was a ridiculous thought that John banished from his head immediately.

When Sherlock returned he had Mrs. Hudson following him.  The detective and the Chinese takeaway disappeared into the sitting room to wait out the emotions that were manifesting in the kitchen, but Mrs. Hudson went immediately to Samantha and took the girl into her arms, being generally much better at comfort than John and definitely Sherlock.

After a bit she asked Samantha whether she’d like to come downstairs, and Samantha nodded, and only after the two had left did Sherlock come into the kitchen with the food, which was sounding worse and worse to John by the second.

“Did you ask Mrs. Hudson to come up?”

“She offered,” said Sherlock defensively, attempting to look scandalised that John thought he would intrude upon their landlady’s grief to ask a favour.

John nearly smiled at the indignation, but he suspected it came out more like a grimace.  “Well.  Thanks, anyway.”

“Are you going to eat?” asked Sherlock.  “It’s going cold.”

“No.”  John stood and deposited the entire bag into the fridge.  When he sat back down he said, “We need to talk.”

Sherlock stiffened and began to deny loudly that he had any emotions in need of being discussed.

“Not about – that,” said John, “although if you...”  He had been going to say that if Sherlock _wanted_ to talk John would listen, but changed his mind midsentence.  “About Samantha.”

“What about her?”

John just raised his eyebrows, hoping it would be sufficient admonishment.  “Sherlock.  In the span of _one day_ we’ve basically become parents.  To a teenage girl.  We...”

“Are you saying you don’t think we can do it?”

“No, of course not, Sherlock, I’m saying...god, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

There was a long silence punctuated only by John’s occasional sipping of tea that was among the worst he’d ever made.

Finally he asked Sherlock, very carefully, “Are you...okay with all this?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.  “Should I not be?"

“No, it’s just...I mean we never actually _discussed_ all of this.  It’s all been very sudden.  Just – are you okay with the idea of us basically being Samantha’s parents?”

“We did discuss it,” said Sherlock.  “Four months and twenty-six days ago, when Jenny asked us to be guardians should this happen.”

“Yes, but...we never expected it actually _would_ happen, did we?”

Sherlock examined John closely and John got the sense that the detective knew everything that had transpired in the kitchen between him and Samantha, as well as all of the things John hadn’t said out loud: about Mary, about his unborn daughter, about Samantha feeling like a second chance he wasn’t sure he was ready for.  “Are _you_ okay with all of this?”

John swallowed.  “Yes, I think I am.”

For a fleeting moment, Sherlock looked oddly emotional, reflective, something bordering on sentimental.  “I didn’t expect this, when I made my promise to Jenny,” he said, “but I never make a vow I don’t mean.  You know that.”

And Jon’s heart skipped a beat, and he wanted to laugh or cry or scream or maybe just sleep for a very long time, and most of all he wanted to take Sherlock into his arms and hold him close, and never let him go, but before he could do any of those things Sherlock gave him a wry smile and said, “Good night, John,” and disappeared into his room again, which was probably just as well, and it didn’t occur to John until quite a while later, still sitting in the slowly darkening kitchen with his stone cold cup of tea, that it wasn’t actually very late and perhaps Sherlock had left because he, too, had all the same impulses and he, too, wasn’t sure he could keep them contained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first song Sherlock plays, Samantha's favourite, is Bach's Fugue Sonata. The second song he plays is the second movement of Mendelssohn's Concerto in E Minor.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this took me so long! School gets out Friday, so hopefully I'll be able to start updating much more frequently.

“Meeting you two,” Jenny said, raising her glass of cheap champagne in a toast, “is one of the best things that has happened to me in a long time.”

John thought back to everything that had happened over the past year: his wife, an assassin; Sherlock, nearly deported for what John knew would have been a suicide mission; Mary dead; the baby dead.  “Yes,” he agreed, and it was the truth.

Samantha was not drinking champagne, but she raised her Coke bottle and said dramatically, “To us.”

“To us,” echoed John and Jenny. 

Sherlock was not particularly fond of outbursts of sentiment, but he raised his glass all the same and John caught the small but genuine smile that the detective tried to conceal by taking a sip.

“We’re a good fit, aren’t we?” mused Jenny.  She was on the brink of drunkenness, and it made her quiet and thoughtful. 

“A perfect fit.”  John was more sober than he let on and enjoying the excuse for sentiment while remaining perfectly clear-headed.

“It’s funny, how we found each other.”  Jenny took a sip of champagne, emptying the glass.  “Perfect timing, really.  A lucky coincidence, I guess.”

“A coincidence,” said John, mulling the thought over. 

Sherlock caught John’s eye with an undecipherable expression and said, “The universe is rarely so lazy.”

John jerked awake suddenly to the sound of the phone ringing.  He was not entirely sure when he had crossed over from reminiscing to dreaming, but either way he was uncomfortably aware of the sharp pang in his chest, the unignorable reminder that _Jenny-is-gone-and-you’ll-never-have-another-night-like-that-one-again._

One of very few people in his life who mattered to him.  And she’d been taken from him.  John Watson, it seemed, had fallen into the habit of losing the people he loved.  Was it a coincidence?

The universe was rarely so lazy.

The phone rang again, harshly, insistently, and John got up to answer it.

-

There were one hundred and forty-six tiles on the ceiling of Sherlock Holmes’ bedroom.  Eighteen of them were cracked.  Seven had gouge marks in them from the time he’d gotten bored and thrown knives at the ceiling. 

(“Experiment,” he’d told John when the doctor came in to ask _just what the bloody hell do you think you’re doing._

“Jesus,” John muttered.  “I shouldn’t even be surprised anymore.”  Then, louder: “Are the ceiling tiles of adequate thickness for you, or are you going to douse them in some chemical to improve them?”

Sherlock made a noncommittal humming noise and John left.)

One had a hole all the way through it, and the insulation was visible if you were looking at the right angle.

This was not helpful. 

Jenny Hemingway was still dead.

Samantha Hemingway was still downstairs.

Sherlock Holmes was still in charge of an actual human being for at least the next three years.

He wondered vaguely how angry John would be if he gave in to the temptation to smoke, and then decided that John probably wouldn’t care, and then remembered that his cigarettes were downstairs and he couldn’t be arsed to get up and find them.  If John hadn’t thrown them out by now.

Cold bloody turkey.  Why had he thought that was a good idea?

Sherlock was torn between an intense desire to be alone and an even more intense desire to be with John.  But being with John would require him to get up (unless he shouted for John to come into his room, which he was sure the man would not appreciate) and if Sherlock was too apathetic to find a cigarette, he was certainly too apathetic to seek out human company.

Jenny Hemingway was dead.

Sherlock Holmes was lying in bed and he couldn’t do a single bloody thing about it.

The phone rang.  Once, twice, three times.  It stopped in the middle of the fourth and was replaced by John’s voice.  Low, rough, inarticulate.  He’d been asleep.  Fallen asleep at the kitchen table.  That was unusual.  John never fell asleep anywhere he wasn’t supposed to, an army habit he’d never quite dropped.

The conversation was brief.  Thirty-seven seconds.  Easy to deduce: Mrs. Hudson calling.  Samantha would be spending the night at 221A.  So simple.  Why did people even bother with _answering_ the phone?  Sherlock could hear John pacing in the kitchen, and then the footsteps came down the hall.  They paused outside Sherlock’s door and the detective considered pretending to be asleep.  John would want to _talk_ about things.  If not about _feelings_ , then about the future.  Their future.  With a daughter.

John walked away before Sherlock could make up his mind.

Jenny Hemingway was dead.

Sherlock Holmes had been unable to save her.

_(Caring is not an advantage.)_

And then, as if to prove how utterly and disgustingly and illogically contradictory his brain was sometimes, he suddenly wanted to be near John, _needed_ to be near him, anything to stop feeling so useless and tired and empty.

John was in the sitting room in his usual armchair, looking at a book but not really reading it.  He glanced up when Sherlock came in and flopped onto the sofa.  “Sherlock,” he said.  Not a question, not an accusation.  Just a quiet acknowledgement before he returned his gaze to the book.

 Sherlock said nothing.  He hadn’t been looking for conversation; all he wanted was to not be alone. 

_(Alone is what I have.  Alone protects me.)_

After a moment John looked up again.  Hesitated.  “You okay?”

_(No.  Friends protect people.)_

“Fine.”

“Well.  Good.”

And John looked okay, tired but so bloody _okay,_ that it was infuriating.  Sherlock needed a purpose, needed to do something that would distract him from himself, and comforting John would be the perfect outlet.  Sherlock opened his mouth to say something like _John Watson, I need you to be less okay so that I can comfort you in order to ignore my own feelings._ But he quickly closed again, in case he accidentally said something like that out loud.

John had looked back down at his book, but after a moment set it aside once more.  “Sherlock,” he said, this time much more seriously.

“Hmm?”

When John made no further comment, Sherlock raised his head to look at him.  The doctor was eyeing him uncertainly, uncomfortably, biting his lip.  It was not difficult to deduce what he wanted to say, and John quickly proved Sherlock right.

“I know you don’t like to talk about...all this,” he said, waving his hand vaguely in a gesture that Sherlock understood to simultaneously mean _the Samantha situation_ and _your bloody impossibly emotions._

“Mm.  Yes.  Not really...my area.”

It was the second time that day one of them had referenced their first meeting, and this time it was John who managed a tight smile at the old joke.  “I know,” he said simply.  And Sherlock thought he would leave it at that, until John cleared his throat and said, “And.  Well.  You’re...not a sociopath, Sherlock.”

Sherlock drew his eyebrows together in confusion.  _Yes.  Of course I’m not a sociopath.  I thought I was, until John...but we both know this already.  What does it have to do with anything?_

“And just, I know Jenny’s death has affected you too.”

_Of course.  It has everything to do with anything._

“So...well.  I’ve had my turn to break down already.  So if you need...”  John cleared his throat again.  “Anything.  If you need anything.  I’m.”  He looked vaguely confused, as if he was completely unsure where these words were coming from and why he was saying them.  “I’m here.”

And Sherlock, whose first instinct was usually to scoff at sentiment, to dismiss compassion, found that he had nothing biting to say.  He did, in fact, greatly appreciate the statement, though he had no intention of seeking John out to cry on his shoulder.  So all said was, softly, “I know.”

John smiled, more genuinely this time.  “I know you do.   I’m going up to bed.  I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”

“Good night, John.”

“Good night, Sherlock.”

 


End file.
